


Now You Understand Why I'm Running Scared

by dornfelder



Series: I've Been Running Like You [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Slavery, Torture, idfic probably, outrageous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of waiting for Hawke to return from Sundermount, Fenris goes to meet his sister on his own. He is taken by Danarius.  Anders and Varric get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You Understand Why I'm Running Scared

**Author's Note:**

> So first Dragon Age happened, and then, obviously, Dragon Age II had to happen as well, and then Male Hawke/Fenris just _didn’t_ happen because my hapless wooing of Fenris is a long and painful process of gaining friendship and rivalry points in almost equal measure, and then fic happened instead. In short, I have no idea what I’m doing. 
> 
> If I got any of the names and DA-specific terms wrong, please let me know, as I’ve only played the German version of the game: I also have no idea whether DA uses British or American orthography and idioms, or how colloquial it actually is. (But then, my English has been Americanized to the point of no return, so any attempt of trying to rid it of American-tinted phrasing would be completely futile anyway.)
> 
> The title is taken from Depeche Mode’s [Freelove](http://www.depechemode.de/lyrics/depeche-mode/freelove-2/), so if you’re asking for my personal soundtrack for this fic (or basically Fenris and his love life), take that one.

**I**

When the knock on his front door comes in the middle of the night, Anders wakes with a start, one hand on his staff, the other held out straight in front of him, palm filled with the glowing light of arcane magic. Fear and the power of Justice are coursing through his veins.

He’s been living underground for too long to take kindly to this kind of disturbance, even though it happens on an almost nightly basis – someone injured, someone on the run, seeking his help – but he never gets used to it. It’s better that way. One day, any day now, it might be the templars after all. Though they surely wouldn’t knock, not like this, a second time now with intent. 

„Maker’s beard, not again,“ Anders mutters, throwing off the blanket and walking to the door in nothing but his shift, the staff’s glow illuminating the way. He raises his voice as he fiddles with the chain and the bar. „What’s the matter at this time of the night?“

„Anders, open up,“ Varric’s rough voice tells him. „Bianca and I need your help.“

The days have been fairly quiet since Hawke left town. Anders’ life has been relegated to his clinic, the Hanged Man, where he’s been filling Varric’s ears with his woes instead, to the point where Varric stopped rolling his eyes in good-natured ribbing and just incidentally found something else to do every time Anders entered the room. Since then it’s been him and Justice and his underground lair, which doesn’t offer a lot of entertainment. He’s caught himself thinking it might be nice if Hawke returned with some kind of diversion. It might even have been nice to accompany him to Sundermount, if Anders didn’t suspect it might have something to do with Merill’s not-so-secret obsession with blood magic and mirrors. Which is probably also the reason Hawke didn’t ask him to come. 

Once unlocked, the door is immediately kicked open by Varric, who strides into the room as if he owns it, Bianca slung across his back, and Anders swears he’s seen Qunari less attached to their swords than Varric Tethras to his beloved crossbow. There’s a slight limp to his gait. Anders frowns. Is Varric drunk, or...?

„About time,“ Varric says. „We’re going on a rescue mission, so pack up. Stock up on potions.“ He squints at Anders. „And maybe a hair tie. Some pants?“ 

„Very funny,“ Anders says, already reaching for his gear. „Where are we going, and why?“ 

„They took Fenris. I need your help getting him back,“ Varric says, never one to beat around the bush in times like these. 

Anders freezes, one leg partly inside his breeches. „What?“ 

„You know how he was talking to Hawke about going to meet his sister? He’s finally lost patience with our fearless leader and decided to go and meet her on his own.“

Stumbling as he tries to straighten himself, Anders stares at Varric incredulously.

„Exactly,“ Varric says. „So I’ll let you make an educated guess as to what happened. I give you a hint, it’s what always happens to us. To every one of us. Every single time.“

„She was a lure? And now his former master – what was his name, Darius, Dorian –“

„Danarius.“

„Danarius? I knew it was something pretentious,“ Anders says. „Like master, like slave, I guess.“ The tilt of Varric’s head tells him that he’s wasting Varric’s time. „His master was lurking in the shadows and used the opportunity to reclaim his property?“ He’s fully awake now, so there’s no use in trying to get back to bed. Still, Anders slows down considerably in his attempts to dress.

„Naturally. And now we’re going to get him back.“

„You go and do that,“ Anders says. „Without me. _I’ll_ be going to the tavern and have a beer or two in celebration.“

„You don’t mean that,“ Varric tells him calmly. 

„I mean every word,“ Anders says. „This man – this arrogant, stuck-up _twat_ of an elf has called me an abomination to my face more times than I can count. He’s a cold-hearted son of a bitch with not a single merciful bone in his body, not a bit of compassion in his soul –“

Varric cocks his head. „He also had your back in a fight more than once. He literally saved your life just last week, when that smuggler was trying to stab your back –“

„Oh, yes,“ Anders says. „I remember. I also remember that when I was trying to heal him after, he snapped at me to keep my dirty, tainted fingers to myself. _No._ If he had wanted a friend to come looking for him, he shouldn’t have treated each and every single one of us – except, maybe, Hawke, who can obviously do no wrong in his eyes, no matter how many blood mages he consorts with – like we weren’t worth the piss in a templar’s chamber pot.“ The righteous fury reverberates in his voice, finding its echo in Justice and mingling with something suspiciously akin to spite, not that he would admit to it. „Let his master leash him. Fenris knows better than anyone what kind of fate that is, and yet he wishes slavery on others.“

„Like you do, you mean?“ Varric asks.

„Don’t even,“ Anders warns him. „I’ve been perfectly willing to get along with him, but –“

Varric just looks at him, then suddenly sighs and, without asking permission, drops down onto Anders’ favorite chair. He pulls Bianca into his lap. „Listen. I’m not telling you you have to like him, or be nice to him. If I could ask someone else, I would, but there isn’t. Hawke is Maker-knows-where, doing Maker-knows-what with Merill. If he hadn’t taken Isabela and Aveline, I’m sure they’d help; Isabela may be a greedy, uncharitable soul, but she knows the value of freedom. And Aveline? I wouldn’t have to ask her twice, she’d just want to know whether I believe that two dozen guardsmen will suffice. But they _aren’t_ here. Which leaves the two of us. I’ve pulled some strings to get us a bit of help, but I need a mage who doesn’t shit his pants in battle, and more importantly, I need a healer.“

For the most part, his words have only served to made Anders scoff, because seriously, Isabela? But the last part brings him up short. „A healer? For hunting down slavers?“ 

„For treating those in their tender care,“ Varric says. „You weren’t there. Listen, Blondie, I know there’s no love lost between you and him – but this isn’t about either of you. Not really.

„He’d finally decided to go and see her, and he’s no fool, of course he knew it could be a ruse, which is why he asked me to come. I tried to talk him out of it, make him wait for back-up, at least. Believe it or not, we’re friends, he and I – we’ve been fighting alongside one another for a while now. Hawke keeps you two apart, which means that you don’t know half of what we’ve been through because you weren’t there.“ 

Varric looks at him, considering. Anders shifts his feet. He hates being under close scrutiny. Varric, for all his flaws, is a good judge of character, and currently, he’s juding Anders and finding him lacking.

„Fenris is Hawke’s first choice as a fighter, and he works better in a team with Merill,” Varric continues after a second. “Sure, they clash on occasion – but you and him, it’s just no good, no use in forcing you two to work together when it’s just cutting remarks and a dark mood the whole day long – and I’m not blaming you, I know he can be an utter stubborn bastard. Maker, don’t I know it. But Fenris was with us when we went to the Deep Roads, he was with us when we lost Bethany.“ Seemingly without his permission, Varric’s fingers start tracing Bianca’s intricate carvings. 

„My point is, I trust him to have my back, but today, I didn’t have his. It’s not often that Bianca and I let a friend down.“ Varric shakes his head, fingers tapping slightly on the polished wood. „As I said, I went with him, and _of course_ it was a trap. At least the girl was really his sister – that much became obvious the moment he saw her and abandoned all common sense, he just went to her with that light in his eyes, as if he’d found a whole new world in her – or a _lost_ world, I guess.

“And that’s when Danarius made an appearance with two dozen slavers in tow. Now, usually that would just mean he’d get his ass handed to him – but without Hawke, without a mage to back us up, there was nothing we could do. It wasn’t for lack of trying on Fenris’ part, let me tell you that. I’ve never seen him fight like this, never. You know how he never raises his voice in battle – no taunts, no yelling, nothing?“ Varric waits for confirmation on his face, holding Anders’ gaze as he continues. „He was screaming like wounded animal when they took him down. He’d killed a dozen of them, a force of nature, Maker, what a fight he put up. Bianca and I did what we could to help, but then that blasted assassin got to me when I wasn’t looking. When I came to, they had him pinned to the ground, holding him down with four men and Danarius was whipping him _like a dog._ All I could see was blood, and hear him scream. What, do you think, does it take to make Fenris scream?“

At a loss for words, Anders swallows around a dry throat. Varric is a storyteller, a weaver and spinner of tales from ashes and smoke when he wants to be, but he’s not a liar. Something tells him that right now, Varric means every word. 

„I tried to get to Bianca. They didn’t pay me any attention, too busy taunting him. I thought maybe I could get a shot in, I was aiming at Danarius – and then Fenris _saw_ me. I don’t know how, he was on the ground on his stomach, but he turned his head and looked straight at me, and then his lips moved and I could read his words even though he didn’t say them aloud. You know what he said, Anders, what he was asking for?“

Anders wets his lips, his hands clenching into fists. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t trust his voice. 

„I would have done it,“ Varric says. „Because you don’t look a friend in the eye when he’s facing a fate worse than death and deny him the help he’s asking for. Because you don’t deny someone an act of mercy. Not when you want to be able look at yourself in the mirror the next day, the next year.“

Karl’s face, pale and pleading, with the echo of something irrevocably lost. It’s hard to breathe and not have it come out as a gasp. Varric, a distant part of Anders thinks bitterly, knows where to aim to make it hurt. 

„Only that I wasn’t as smooth as I’d thought, with a broken leg and bleeding all over the floor from being stabbed. Suddenly there was a knife at my throat and they took Bianca from me and hauled me up. I honestly thought that I’d taken my last breath, but then Danarius said – do you want to know what he said?“ 

„No,“ Anders says.

„Too bad,“ Varric says. „He said, ‘Tell the Champion, I am a reasonable man. I only take what is mine. I will even let you live, dwarf, even though I have to admit, I was rather displeased that he was so intent on keeping my possession from me. I have spent too much time and gold to see it all go to waste. And he has been coddling my little wolf, making him believe, foolishly, that he was meant to be man. It is a curious thing – almost like those _Mabaris_ that the Fereldans are so fond of, who are said to be more than dogs, cunning and brave, but in the end, they still wear collars. They still sleep in kennels. You do not let them eat at your table. Fenris here might have forgotten his place, but he will remember soon enough.’ At that point, Fenris was lying at his feet, gone quiet. Not his usual, broody silence, mind you; it was as if he wasn’t even there anymore, his eyes empty – until they brought in the girl, his sister.“

Anders doesn’t think he can stand to hear the rest, but he knows, looking at Varric, that he won’t be spared. He grinds his teeth, hands clenching into fists.

„Then that bastard talked to Fenris, in that same silky, smooth voice,“ Varric continues, changing his intonation and voice to give a chillingly accurate imitation of a Tevinter accent. „‘Your first mistake, my pet, was to believe that you could own something. Men own things, but pets do not; they _are owned_. Animals know nothing of family, my little wolf, they have neither sisters nor brothers. I believe you need to re-learn that lesson. There is no family for you, just your place at my feet, for I am your master, as it should be.’

“And then he cut the girl’s throat. Her blood hadn’t even gone cold on the floor when he ordered his men to tie Fenris up and put a collar and a leash on him. He whipped him a couple more times for good measure, with that gleam in his eyes that meant that Fenris hadn’t seen the last of that whip, not by a long stretch. Then they dragged him accross the floor, out of the room, coughing and almost strangling himself at the end of that leash. And that was the last that I saw of _him_.“ Varric’s hand in its leathered glove tightens on the arm rest as he leans forward. „But Danarius wasn’t quite done. He turned to me one last time, smiling at me, all civil and polite. ‘Tell your master that I have no quarrel with him; in fact, I thank him for keeping my pet in a condition that allows me to resume his training. I will enjoy breaking him again, there is nothing quite like the challenge of disciplining a disobedient slave, and my little wolf has been very disobedient.’ He tossed a bag of coins in my direction, said, ‘For your inconveniences,’ and left, and that’s how I earned twenty sovereigns for our cause by selling Fenris out to his Tevinter slave master. Isn’t that hilarious, eh, Blondie?“

Anders stares at him, feeling queasy. 

Varric shrugs. „So here I am, no longer a bleeding mess, leg sufficiently healed, with no Hawke in sight and no time to waste when I want to have a chance at getting my friend back – or what’s left of him at this point. So let’s try this again, shall we? Anders, I could really use your help. What do you say?“ 

Anders, still at a loss for words, just looks at him. But whatever Varric reads in his face seems enough to make him bare his teeth in a grim and humorless mockery of a smile. „Thought so,“ he says. „Now grab your things and, for the sweet love of Andraste, put on some pants.“

**II**

The slavers have made camp in a small canyon not far from the coast. There are guards – there are _always_ guards – but not enough to pose a challenge for ten Coterie rogues, a mage possessed by the vengeful spirit of Justice, and an even more vengeful dwarf armed with the Crossbow of Doom.

It’s not long until Danarius is the only one left standing and they have have him backed up against a wheelbarrow, laden with a huge ominous looking chest that Anders doesn’t want to think about, even though they haven’t found a trace of Fenris anywhere else. Anders would be happy to just end it, there and then, with a well-aimed blast of magic, but it’s Varric who comes forth, and while Anders has never thought him a particularly threatening figure, he has time for reassessment, while Varric, Bianca at the ready, approaches with silent steps. 

„You know what?“ Varric asks Danarius, voice deceptively pleasant. „You made one mistake when you set all this in motion to get Fenris back.“ 

„I see,“ Danarius says, licking his lips. „Clearly I underestimated the worth that he has to you.“ He’s sweating, eyes wide with fear. „Certainly we could negotiate, I have resources at hand –“

„You just made it again,“ Varric says. „Unfortunately, I’m not the forgiving type. “ The thud of the bolt, when it hits, is one of the most satisfying things Anders has ever heard. Varric slings Bianca across his shoulders, barks a short order at their party to secure the camp before he’s crouching down and searching Danarius’ body, almost frantically. „The key. I need the bloody key –“ 

Anders side-eyes the chest. It’s massive, reinforced wood with steel, painted with huge swirls of color, black and silver and blue, making Anders’ hair stand on end. It looks like a _coffin_ , one that was made with one specific person in mind. „You think, he’s _really_  –“

„The blasted key, come on, where is it – he doesn’t have it, why doesn’t he have it – ah, there it is, thank the Maker –“ 

The key fits. Then they’re opening the chest to stare down at Fenris’ still form, curled up on his side, covered in blood and what must be piss and vomit, but alive and breathing. Anders lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

„Fenris! Come on, we’ve got you, you’re safe.“ Varric cautiously puts a hand on his shoulder. „Come on,“ he repeats. „Let’s get you out of here. Fenris?“ 

There’s the tiniest hint of a movement as Fenric curls up even tighter. He doesn’t shake Varric’s hand off, doesn’t try to evade the touch, just retreats that much deeper into himself. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering slighly as a shiver runs through him. Other than that, there’s no reaction. 

Varric straightens, wiping a hand over his mouth, and for maybe the first time since Anders knows him, he seems completely at a loss. He looks at Anders, asking silently for advice, for reassurance, and Anders makes a shooing motion. _Go on._

After a moment, Varric tries again. „Fenris. Can you hear me? We need to get you out of this thing, yes? We’ll – Anders and I –“ he looks back at Anders with a plea in his eyes. „We’ll help you. We’ll have a fire going in no time, to warm you up, some water to get the blood off you –“ 

Fenris doesn’t react. Anders puts a hand on his forehead, slowly, cautiously. It’s clammy to the touch, covered in cold sweat. His skin is pale, covered in flakes and droplets of dried blood. Anders takes a deep breath. It’s not the first time he sees someone in his condition. No matter how often it happens, some beat-up tavern wench, some half-starved child, cowering in fear, he’s never getting used to it.

And yet – this, right here, is plain _wrong._ It’s the first time he’s ever touched Fenris without being told, vehemently, _not to_. Fenris, whenever Anders sees him, is coiled energy, tension waiting to be released in motion, or maybe a scornful outburst of words, violent, but under control. The deadly accuracy of a blade, wielded with ease. Cutting remarks that never fail to hit their mark, sometimes intentionally cruel, never wasted. Lips curled in disdain, a dark gleam in clear green eyes, body and mind posed for battle. But this – _this_ isn’t how Fenris should look. 

„Let’s get him out,“ Anders says. Varric nods, eyes somber, and together they lift Fenris out of that box. He’s been stripped off his armor, down to soiled smallclothes. Gashes and welts cover his body, the lyrium markings barely visibly beneath the stain of blood and excrements. But that isn’t the worst of it, not really, nor the blueish tint of his lips, or the stillness - with his eyes closed under long lashes when they should be alive and furious and directed at Anders with a wealth of scorn. The worst thing is the collar around his neck, made of cold, gleaming metal, and the magic that locks it. Blood magic. Anders has read enough about Tevinter’s magistri to know how this works, how this kind of collar can only be locked or unlocked at the slave master’s will, and will start to choke its bearer if he dares to lift a hand against his master, or to step too far away, or any other transgression his master might deem punishable. It’s the most horrendous, despicable thing, and Anders he needs it _gone. Now._

_I agree_ , Justice says in his head, and floods him with power. 

_Wait,_ he tells him. _We have to be careful, or we might kill him when we remove it, and then Justice won’t be served at all. Let me think._

Justice insists, unrelenting, and for a moment Anders is almost overcome with the urge to just _destroy._ He takes a deep breath while closing his eyes, then another. _My way,_ he tells Justice, determined. _Look for a weakness within the metal itself. It’s man-made, there are always ways..._ He touches the collar, a shiver of disgust running through him as he feels the thick, sirupy taint of blood magic. _There._ A bit of magic applied right at the core – he wouldn’t have the strength if it weren’t for the angry spirit inside of him. _Now,_ he tells Justice. _Careful. We have to shatter it, not melt it._

Blinding white energy runs through him. The blood magic stands no chance, breaking apart at the force of the assault. _Done,_ he thinks, satisfied, and adds, _thank you,_ for Justice’s sake. 

_Unnecessary,_ the spirit says, pliant as always when he believes that Anders has literally served his purpose well.

He opens his eyes. The collar is gone, broken pieces littering the ground. Varric is looking at him with a mixture of awe and apprehensiveness, and Anders can’t really blame him. „We need a fire,“ Anders says. „Blankets. Something warm to drink, tea, or broth.“

Varric nods, then swears. „I guess we have to make camp here. Though I’d rather like to burn the whole place down. It stinks of slavery.” 

„It’s what we have,“ Anders says. „We can move later, when he’s... in a better shape.“ 

The slavers didn’t make a camp fire, so the duty of collecting wood falls to Varric and his hired rogues, who don’t waste their time on gathering missions and just smash the wheelbarrow. And the chest, Anders notices, distracted from his patient briefly by the sound of splintering wood. Who would have known Varric could be that violent with an axe? He turns back to his patient when Fenris whimpers softly, the first noise Anders has heard him make through the whole ordeal of washing him, cleaning and dressing his wounds to the best of his abilities, healing the biggest gashes with magic, tending to the lesser ones with conventional herbs and salves. Fenris has a broken arm too, his sword arm, and Anders has to set it before he can heal it, does so in constant fear of causing more pain. Warmth is the next priority. Someone drops a couple of blankets at his feet, and Anders nods in thanks and starts wrapping Fenris in them. 

And finally he’s reached the limits of what he can do, with all his knowledge and his power, and watches Fenris lie there, shivering even under all those blankets. Stares at him in the light of the fire that’s starting to come to life beside them, crackling and pleasantly warm just as the sun goes down in the western sky. They’re stuck here for the night. The mercenaries have made their own fire, not too far away, and were allowed to loot the slavers’ possessions to their contentment.

Varric returns to the fire with further supplies. „How is he doing?“

„Could be better,“ Anders says. „Maybe you know a way to get through to him, to get him to come back.“

„You are the healer! You know how to deal with that kind of thing; it’s why I brought you.”

„Yes, but I’m not his friend,“ Anders says. 

„Are you still telling yourself that?“ 

„If he were awake, he’d tell you the same, and in no uncertain terms.“

Varric huffs out a laugh. “How about this: the moment he’s awake and well enough to tell you to bugger off, I’ll consider your work done.“

„Varric...“ Anders pauses. _Don’t tell him what I said,_ is on his lips, but he’s not sure how much Fenris might hear, and he thinks that Varric might keep it between the two of them without being asked. He’s good at keeping secrets. 

Then Varric slowly pats Fenris’ shoulder, wrapped in a blanket that has seen better days but at least doesn’t smell of patchouli like the things in Danarius’ bags. „Hey, my broody friend. Feel free to wake up any time you like. You can. They’re gone, they’re all gone, Danarius and his bunch of rotten nug fuckers; they’re dead, and you’re safe. We took care of it. But hey, you’re a free man, so if you want to sleep a little longer, that’s up to you. It’s fine, don’t be in a hurry, just – don’t make us wait too long. I’ll be here, waiting. I’m sorry I didn’t keep them from taking you. I’m sorry I –“ But then Varrric stops himself and gets to his feet. „No, you know what? I’m not going to say this unless I can actually look you in the eye. So you better wake up. ‘Ttil then, I’ll be on my watch.“

Anders watches him walk away, then looks back at Fenris. It’s going to be a long night. He grabs one of the spare blankets and lies down between Fenris and the fire, eyes on Fenris’ face. „You know, you don’t deserve a friend like him,“ he says conversationally. „I don’t get it. But who knows, maybe you’re really a decent person when you’re not spewing hatred against anyone who happens to be born a mage.“ 

Driven by something he can’t name, he puts a hand on Fenris’ head, minding the newly healed gash at his temple. Fenris’ hair is soft under his hands, softer than it has any right to be, though it could definitely use a proper wash. „Look,“ Anders says. „Believe it or not, I know a bit of what you’re going through. Yes, I know you think it’s not the same... but I was a prisoner too, and I’ve felt the bite of the whip, though they never beat me like they beat you. Let’s just say, I know enough of it to never wish it on an anyone else. I know what it’s like to live in fear that they’re going to take away your freedom, that they’re going to take what makes you _you_. I thought for a long time that being made Tranquil was the worst thing that could happen to a person. But living at the mercy of a person like Danarius – I’m not too blind to see that it would be even worse. The Rite of Tranquility destroys your soul, but at least, once it’s done, it’s done. For a slave, the pain never stops, does it? It never stops destroying your soul, day by day.”

“But that’s not going to happen to you, Fenris,“ hesays after a moment. „You should come back and show the world that he didn’t succeed in destroying you. You’re stronger than that, I know you are.“ He strokes Fenris’ hair, just a bit, because he can, and because he always wondered what it would feel like. Fenris is welcome to wake up anytime and tell him off. „This is awkward, isn’t it? If Hawke were here, I guess he’d know what to say or do to make you wake up. He’d make a horrible joke, or say something really obnoxious, or just... the right thing at the right time, the way he sometimes does, it’s a gift. That’s why he’s the champion, I guess. But he isn’t here now; you’re stuck with Varric and me, and Varric is on a self-imposed misssion to guard the camp while beating himself up over the fact that he couldn’t stop Danarius from getting to you. And I – I guess it doesn’t mean a lot to you. But he and I, we’re both here to protect you, to do what we can to help.“ 

His fingers slip, grazing the tip of Fenris’ ear. Fenris makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and Anders hurriedly retracts his hand, not wanting to be caught touching where it won’t be welcome once Fenris opens his eyes. „Fenris?“

And finally Fenris _does_ open his eyes. They’re hazy, flickering unsteadily, pupils widening as he stares at Anders. 

„Well, hello,“ Anders says. „Please don’t hit me.“ Fenris stares at him blankly. „It’s all right,“ Anders says. „We got you out. We – “ 

A violent shudder runs through Fenris. He gasps, flinching, then suddenly he’s in motion, trying to get to his feet, throwing the blankets off him like a man possessed and tearing one of them apart in his haste as if it’s made of nothing but Orlesian lace. Anders scrambles to his feet after him. „Maker, Fenris, will you calm down?. You got away from him. He’s _dead_.“ 

Fenris looks around wildly, chest heaving. He’s naked in the firelight, lyrium lines glowing blue in the dark against his marred skin, his silvery white hair. Made of ferocity and magic, light and darkness, like a primeval creature of the underworld. His eyes are alight with fear, the naked, raw emotion so plain that it feels like a punch to the gut, taking Anders’ breath away. He knows there’s nothing he can say or do, that he has nothing to offer that his man would accept of him. He tries anyway. „You got away. Varric killed him for you. They are all dead.“

Fenris is standing there, staring at him like he doesn’t know who Anders is, or what he is talking about. Then Varric approaches with hurried footsteps. „Fenris, are you –“

Fenris lifts a shaky hand, hesitantly touching his bare throat. He swallows, lets his hand drop, looking down at himself – naked, but whole, hurt but healing. He makes a small noise, one of distress, it might be pain, or fear. 

“Easy,“ Anders says, keeping his voice light and firm. „They hurt you a lot, but it’s all going to heal, we got the collar off and –“

Fenris screams. 

Like it’s torn from him under torture, a scream of utter anguish and rage, lasting for what feels like forever. Screaming his throat raw, Anders distantly thinks. The rogues are staring in their direction, muttering unfriendly things under their breath, and Varric glares back, then looks from Fenris to Anders, clearly not knowing what to do any more than Anders does. It’s only when the screaming abruptly stops and Fenris sinks to the ground, retching violently and bringing up nothing but blood-speckled acid, right before the retching turns into helpless, desperate sobbing, that Anders dares to make a move toward him, kneeling down at his side. „It’s all right, Fenris,“ Anders hears himself say, in a tone alien to himself. „It’s all right, you are here and he can’t touch you anymore.“ 

He puts a hand on Fenris’ shoulder. At first, Fenris shies away from the touch, but then lifts his head to look at Anders with such an expression of utter misery that Anders can’t help it. He can’t blame it on the spirit in him either; Justice is many things, but kind isn’t one of them. And yet he reaches out again, his hands announcing their intent not to hurt, but to touch, to offer what comfort he can, what comfort he knows through touch and proximity. 

For a second he’s convinced that Fenris will reject him, bracing himself for the moment he’s pushed away – and then Fenris just leans in, letting Anders hands come to rest on his shoulders and pull him close. „You’re free,“ Anders whispers, and Fenris gasps, his head sinking forward until it’s resting against Anders’ shoulders and Anders can close his arms around him. 

Varric lowers Bianca oh so very slowly, shooting another glare at the rogue camp, then a inquiring glance at Anders, with a tilt of his head into Fenris’ direction. Anders nods, answering a question that can’t be voiced, and Varric turns to go.

Fenris’ calms down after a while. Anders holds on to him as tightly as he dares while trying not to hurt him or make him feel trapped. It can’t be long now before Fenris realizes that it’s _Anders_ he’s accepting comfort from, naked and vulnerable, when Fenris is the last person on Thedas to permit himself a moment of weakness where others can see. For Fenris, who is so adamant about his dignity, his independence, this has to be the worst kind of nightmare. 

The thing is, at any other occasion, Anders would take advantage of an opportunity like this. He’s perfectly aware of his own shortcomings in that regard, Maker knows he’s no saint. And Fenris can nettle and irritate him to a point where Anders loses his temper and uses whatever weapon he has, short of an actual one. Yet at the moment, even the thought of doing anything to contribute to Fenris’ suffering is unthinkable. Anders sighs softly, resigning himself to be shoved away as soon as Fenris regains a measure of composure.

The moment doesn’t come. Fenris doesn’t move away, not even after his sobbing has finally ceased. If Anders didn’t know better, he’d say that Fenris is doing the exact opposite. His forehead is still resting on Anders’ shoulder and he’s pressed to Anders’ closely, basically sitting in his lap with no apparent intention to move time soon. Anders tentatively, cautiously, lets his hand slide over Fenris’ back, touching bare skin, hot to the touch where it’s raw and barely healed, tingling where the complex pattern of lyrium lines marks him like a brand. Fenris inhales sharply, and Anders, embarrassed that he let himself slip, takes his hand away. Time to extricate himself from their all too intimate embrace. 

„Well,“ he says, clearing his throat, and Fenris stiffens, and this is the moment Anders had been dreading all along. But Fenris _still_ doesn’t pull away. Anders doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s holding Fenris in his lap like a kitten, only that it’s a kitten with sharp claws and a bad temper – it feels like he’s cuddling with a lion, not knowing when it’s going to bite, only that it inevitably will at some point. But Fenris isn’t an animal, and Anders should know better than to think of him that way. When this, this measure of solace, is what Fenris needs, then Anders isn’t going to deny him. 

„Let’s lie down,“ Anders suggests after a while, keeping his tone factual. Slowly, as if he’s coming awake from a dream, Fenris lifts his head, blinking, and nods . Still pliant in a way that makes Anders’ skin crawl with how deeply _wrong_ it is, he lets Anders pull him down and rearrange the blankets around them. They’ll both fit under there easily. The warmth of another body is always welcome during nights like these, more so for someone still in need of healing. Anders has gotten used to sharing his blankets with his companions during their travels, even with a snoring dwarven merchant prince or a slightly smelly pirate captain who just won’t keep her hands to herself. Of course, sharing blankets with Fenris has never once occurred to him, and he’s willing to bet that Fenris hasn’t taken it into consideration either. 

„Varric brought your second set of armor, but I wouldn’t put it on just yet,“ Anders says, hoping that the casual approach will get them over the worst of the awkwardness. „Your sword too. We’ll get them for you, first thing in the morning, I promise.“ 

Varric appears again right on cue, handing them a water skin warmed by the fire, and Anders takes the first sip just because it’s customary when drinking with your enemy, then offers it to Fenris, prepared to hold it for him. Fenris takes it into his own hand and drinks in deep, grateful gulps, giving Anders time to exchange another glance with Varric. He shrugs to indicate that he really doesn’t know what he is doing, bedding down with Fenris, but what choice does he have? 

Varric coughs, a hint of amusement glittering in his eyes, and shrugs. „I’ll be on watch for the night,“ he says. „There’s no one else out here for miles, so we should be safe until morning.“ He stokes up the fire with more wood, then disappears into the dark again. 

Anders returns his gaze to Fenris, flinching without meaning to when he finds Fenris looking at him, with shadowed, weirdly intent eyes. „We should sleep,“ Anders says, not trusting his voice. 

„The collar,“ Fenris says; the first thing he’s said since he regained consciousness. It comes out as a rasp, nothing like the pleasant smoothness of his normal voice. „How did you get it off me? I was told –“

Anders thinks of lying only for a brief moment. „Justice didn’t much care for it,“ he says. „Neither did I.“ 

Surprisingly, Fenris’ face doesn’t show any sings of disgust. „Did you – destroy it?“

„Yes,“ Anders immediately says. „I can show you in the morning, it’s definitely broken beyond repair.“

„He had it made when he was looking for me,“ Fenris says. „But he had to take my blood to complete the spell. If he’d already had it while I was with him, I would never have gotten away.“ But instead of turning it into a tirade against magic as usual, Fenris just frowns as if there’s something that pains him and he doesn’t know where. 

„What is it?“ Anders asks. 

„He told me that –“ Fenris interrrpts himself, then shakes his head. „Never mind.“ 

„You can tell me,“ Anders says. „I’m willing to listen and I promise not to hold it against you, or tell anyone else.“ Justice takes an interest in that. _A promise willingly given must be held._

Fenris just shakes his head. He’s lying on his side with his head on some old rag that Anders would be loathe to call a pillow, even after living in Dark Town for close to seven years. He keeps looking at Anders. Anders swallows, made nervous by the absence of anything familiar, meaning hostile, in his gaze. There is _something_ , but he fails at recognizing it as any kind of emotion he would normally associate with Fenris. Just to have something to do with his hands, he takes another swallow of water, then makes sure to put the water skin within arm’s reach for both of them and setttles in for the night, right next to Fenris while making sure not to touch him. „Let’s get some sleep,“ he says, knowing that even though he exhausted both mind and body today, sleep will be a long time coming. He closes his eyes nonetheless. 

For a while, he just keeps lying in the dark, listening to the sounds around him, the camp fire, the wind that stirs the leaves of a couple of birch trees not far away, a gentle breeze. The men at the other fire, exchanging the occasional, quiet remark. Sometimes a hint of Varric, humming softly to himself as he circles the camp on his vigil of penance.

And Fenris, who lies beside him, breathing quietly, and trembling. Anders opens his eyes again. „Are you cold?“ he asks. Fenris looks at him, shakes his head, then looks away. Anders sees the muscles of his throat work as he swallows. If not the cold, then what is it? Nightmares? Pain?

He tries to catch Fenris’ gaze, to ask without words. He hates having to guess, not knowing what his patients need because they are too proud or too scare to tell him. In any way, proximity had seemed to help, earlier, so Anders steels himself against the inevitable snarl and maybe a broken nose and shifts closer. He lays a hand on Fenris’ shoulder. Fenris, who is still naked, and Maker’s beard, Anders should have thought of that _before_ initiating any kind of touch. He’s still wearing his robes and undergarments, thankfully, but even so, he can feel the heat of another body close to his, close enough that they could be mistaken for lovers if the thought weren’t so utterly ridiculous to anyone who has known them for more than a minute. Anders bites his lip, sincerely hoping that Fenris will never know how close Anders has come to giggling like an elven maid. 

A few minutes laters, it’s not that funny anymore. Fenris shifts, turning his head slightly, and his breath is ghosting over Anders’ neck, his ear. Anders swallows, lying as still as he can, unable to move away from something that feels like the sweetest kind of torture. How can he possibly think of anything carnal when Fenris is only seeking warmth and comfort after being beaten and whipped and locked in a chest? How can he possibly _not_ think of anything carnal with Fenris’ naked, warm body this close, his humid breath tickling Anders’ neck with every exhale?

Anders bites his tongue, keeping his eyes closed, intent on turning away, any second now, when Fenris shifts _again_ , moving his leg just so, to press against Anders’ thigh. Anders’ eyes fly open. „Mercy, Fenris,“ he whispers. „You can’t –“ and stops himself, because he finally realizes what it is that Fenris wants, needs, and wants to laugh, almost giddy in relief. „Unless you want to,“ he says. „Unless this is what you want. Maker, tell me that I’m not reading this the wrong way, Fenris, don’t –“ 

But he clearly _hasn’t_ been reading it the wrong way, not when Fenris’ reaction is to slide even closer, his hair tickling Ander’s cheek, his lips brushing over Anders’ ear. If Anders were to turn his head just so – _just so_... He does, it, blindly, daringlyy, and their lips meet, a chaste kiss, just a brief moment that might have been accidental, if it didn’t happen again, if Fenris didn’t sigh, almost inaudibly, and kiss him just as chastely. If Anders didn’t start to kiss back, in wonder at first, then with abandon, until the sour taste of despair is gone from Fenris’ mouth and what remains are a slick, intoxicating heat and the growing need between them. 

It’s not only Fenris who needs this. It’s not only Fenris who welcomes the closeness, a pleasure too long denied, almost forgotten. 

They’re quiet, have to be, even though it will be obvious to anyone what they’re doing, and there’s no chance that Varric _won’t_ see. Anders doesn’t care. Fenris’ hands seek out his bare skin under his robes, and he struggles to get rid of them until they’re lying together naked, stripped bare. Fenris pulls Anders on top of him with dizzying strength, thrusting up against him. Anders wonders, for a second, if this is what Fenris wants and cannot ask for: to be covered, to be sheltered and held. They’re moving against each other now with a desperate urgency, and it’s not going to take long. Fenris bites his lower lip, the sting from sharp teeth and the tang of blood as they’re kissing, and Anders is lost, shuddering with the blinding rush of his climax. He spills his seed with a moan that is swallowed by Fenris’ mouth on his, stolen like his breath, or any kind of thought or reason. Fenris’ hands clutch at him to keep him in place even as Fenris breaks the kiss, throwing his head back. The lyrium lines flare up brightly as he surges up and against Anders, spending with a soft, keening noise.

After that, they sleep. 

Anders wakes in the morning, a warm, heavy weight pinning him to the unfamiliar ground. He blinks his eyes open to be greeted with the sight of Varric’s face, staring down at him from a distance that is for some reason much too close. „Morning, Blondie,“ Varric says. „Up and about, we’re leaving as soon as you get your gear in working order. And I don’t mean _that_ kind of gear. Although that seems to be working just fine, judging from what I heard and saw last night.“ 

Anders opens his mouth for a retort.

„Yes?“ Varrric asks with a raised eyebrow and an unholy, wicked gleam in his eyes. 

„Nothing,“ Anders says, resigning himself to the fact that Varric will never let him hear the end of this. Fenris, next to him and half on top of him, appears to be sound asleep, drooling on his shoulder. His left arm is slung across Anders’ chest. It would be almost endearing if Anders weren’t convinced that Fenris is actually very much awake. 

Varric clears his throat. „Whenever you’re ready, of course,“ he says sweetly, and then leaves. Anders lets his head drop to the ground with a groan. 

Maybe he should follow Fenris’ example and do a bit of pretending himself. Ignore the very warm and very naked elf pressed to his side, get up and dress in a hurry, never mention the night again. It’s better than the likely alternative: Fenris staring at him with that murdrous expression that says he’d like to see Anders in the deepest pit of hell, with his unique ability to make Anders feel like the most despicable of vermin. 

But maybe – just maybe – it doesn’t have to be this way. 

Fenris is still there, after all.

If Anders doesn’t want Fenris to hide from this, then maybe he shouldn’t either. 

All right, then. „Good morning,“ Anders says, once he’s sure that Varric is out of earshot. „We should probably get up and see if we can locate your armor and your sword somewhere. And my robes. And I’d like to have a look at your wounds before we leave, if that’s fine with you.“ 

Slowly, very slowly, Fenris opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out until he’s cleared his throat enough to find his voice, still unusually rough. „That – that would be welcome.“ 

His words, a mere civilty, make Anders exhale in relief. „Sure,“ he says. „I don’t suppose you have seen my robes somewhere?“ 

„They seem to have gone.... missing during the night.“

 _You don’t say._ Anders’ huffs out a laugh. „The mysterious ways of a mage’s vestment. Doubtlessly sinister.“

Fenris furrows his brow. „That they are,“ he says, slowly. „Though I’m... willing to consider that they might be useful on occasion.“

Words, spoken so seriously, about robes of all things. Anders wants to roll his eyes. Honestly, who would bother to deny the usefulness of a piece of clothing? Unless... oh. _Oh._

„You’re gaping at me like a Rivaini carp,“ Fenris observes.

Anders hurriedly closes his mouth. „This – this might be the single most _generous_ thing you’ve ever said to me,“ he says after a moment. 

Fenris snorts. „You would think so. Don’t get used to it, mage. I’m still – not overly fond of robes.“

„Well, then,“ Anders says, unable to keep a smile from spreading all over his face. „There’s clearly only one thing to be done about it: you’re going to have to divest me of them more often.“

The expression on Fenris’ face, one of wide-eyed disbelief, is priceless. After a second, Anders is rewarded with something even more memorable: the pleasure of getting to see Fenris blush from the tip of his ears to his collarbone. Anders throws his head back in a laugh, knowing that he won’t be allowed to bask in his victory long, and that the unexpected truce between them is probably not going to last longer than it takes for the next apostate mage to attack them on their way home. Right now he couldn’t care less.


End file.
